Page 6 of Wolfsbane Hall
She sucked in a rattling breath as the knife slipped through her fingers and clinked against the hardwood.
Clink, clink, clink.
The sound haunted her soul and clung to the back regions of her mind.
Celestine broke into full-body shakes as her eyes latched onto James’s glassy, lifeless stare. The shakes were accompanied by quick, shallow, panicked breaths and a burning esophagus, which caused a coughing fit.
She didn’t have a handkerchief, so she clumsily clutched for anything to stifle them, but all she found was a white throw blanket. It would have to do, because thick red mucus escaped her lips as she hacked. Celestine’s body didn’t respond well to murder or the lull as adrenaline slid out of her system.
Regulars and cast members at Wolfsbane Hall never reacted like this; they didn’t break down mid-show. Probably because they were psychopaths. They basked in the excitement and torture, but she always cracked—because she was weak. She couldn’t forgive herself for being a murderer, despite the resurrections. Every night, if the game was solved—and she always ensured it was, confessing if need be—her victims would return to life. But none of that mattered to Celestine. She was still a monster. A pathetic girl who would do anything for the one she loved. And, unfortunately, the one she loved was far more monstrous than she.
“You have to get moving, Celine.” A gentle voice floated on a manufactured breeze, humming through the red curtains coating the walls. The voice moved like physical matter, knocking things over and caressing her face like a concerned paramour. It was the Specter being kind. “You have to get up.”
He was rarely empathetic during a show, reserving that for later.
“You need to stash the knife, wash, and change.” This time, he puppeteered the bust adorning an end table. “You only have ten minutes,” he said, adding the vibrating shadows gripping the walls.
The Specter was a showboat, always talking with as much flair as his personality. Or, at least, as much as his feigned stage persona.
Grab the knife, you fool, the magic character card whispered in Celestine’s head. It was less of a whisper and more of a dialogue line floating inside her mind. A cue card telling her what to do.
The magic was getting restless. It wanted a show. Seeing that it was an extension of the Specter, this wasn’t a surprise. He always wanted a show.
A crashing sound pierced into Celestine’s consciousness, and her head cocked toward the hallway.
Footsteps and debauchery. The club was in full swing. Drinking and gambling governed the place, but soon, people would fancy therealentertainment, and they would go in search of a dead body.
Celestine rubbed her thigh to settle herself, and she repeated the Specter’s words in her head.Stash the knife, wash, and change.Half of it, the Specter’s magic would aid with, but the other half she must do alone. Creating a “good” show took effort.
“Move, Cellie,” the Specter demanded as the shadows. “You only have—”
The door handle rattled. “It’s locked.”
The patrons had found her.
Locked? Celestine hadn’t done that. So it was either the Specter or Wolfsbane helping her out. Or, possibly, James had locked it before he’d died.
“It must mean this is the room we need to enter,” an excited person called out, and the whole door shook like someone had thrown themselves into it.
Celestine’s pulse hammered. The percussion was that of an angry war drum, and every muscle in her back grew taut.
This was a disaster.
She pinched her eyes closed and dug the bases of her palms into them. If she got caught, the show would end immediately, and the Specter would be furious.
She couldn’t let that happen.
All she wanted was to be chosen by him, seen by him, his attention like a purifying fire. It made her feel whole, like everything would be fine. He was her safety net and confidant, and the sad truth was that Celestine would do anything for a moment of praise and affection from him.
The alternative was horrifying. Celestine never wanted to let him down.
A loud bang echoed again through the Red Parlor, and the door shook, the hinges sounding like they’d crack at any moment.
Shit. Move, Celine. Move.Celestine sucked in a hoarse breath and pulled herself to her knees.
“Distract them?” Celestine asked in a voice lower than a whisper.
The shadows wrapped around her arm in answer, trying to pull her into the fireplace, but she couldn’t let it yet.
